


“My universe is my eyes and my ears. Anything else is hearsay.”

by notjustmom



Series: Towel Day 2018 [40]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bump up to explicit in chapter 8, Douglas Adams, First Kiss, M/M, No Slow Burn Here, Towel Day 2018, a sheet scene in chapter 9, angst with a healthy dose of fluff, inspired by Patrick Melrose, not that one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-01 07:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: I watched the last episode of Patrick Melrose again last night, and this seems to be the result. Yet another time when John and Sherlock bump into each other, as they always seem to do...





	1. John

He didn't have a fanciful bone in his body. 

Not one.

Until he went away to war, where he witnessed events that were beyond anything he could ever imagine, had he ever taken the time to imagine anything. War does odd things to a rational man. So does being dead for thirty seconds. Thirty seconds doesn't seem like a long period of time, and yet, in dead time, as he came to think of it, when he spent any time thinking about it, it felt like a good chunk of forever. He couldn't quite explain what it was he saw, or heard when he wasn't anymore, but he knew he wanted to return to it the moment they brought him back. Being dead was easy, it was life that was difficult.

"Welcome back, Captain Watson." The nurse chirped back at him when he opened his eyes for the first time. He knew better than to be anything but grateful to the people who had seen too much death, and had managed to snatch one back. So he offered her what he supposed to be a smile and let the drugs take him under again.

 

"I'm John, and I'm an addict."

"Hullo, John."

 

"Sherlock." 

"John."

"I know. You're new."

"This is my fourth meeting in as many days."

"Ah. You're one of those."

"One of... those?"

"You think if you show up here, and say something deep and meaningful..."

"I didn't, though." John took a sip of the coffee he had just made for himself and made a face.

"Yeah, it's pretty awful stuff. Let me buy you some real coffee."

"Maybe another time? I have to - I have somewhere to be."

"No, you don't -"

John felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he binned the unfinished coffee, turned on his heel and walked away without a word.

 

"Why did you walk away?" Ella asked again.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you walk away from him? You've been talking about how invisible you've felt the last few times we've met, someone actually engages in conversation with you, and you -"

"His voice. It was familiar. I couldn't place it, and then I -"

"John?"

"It isn't rational."

"What isn't?"

"I'd heard it before. But it isn't possible."

"John."

"He knew me."

"Knew you?"

"Sorry, not making sense, and our time is up. See you tomorrow."

 

"That was rather rude, and you aren't normally a rude person."

"How do you know that?" John asked him, not entirely surprised to see Sherlock leaning against the wall as he exited Ella's office/home. He shoved his hands into his pockets and took a good look at the man who was blocking his way, and yet, he knew if he walked past him, he wouldn't try to stop him. He tried not to think about how he knew that. Silver eyes, yes, they were silver, met his gaze then looked away quickly, as if he had gone too far, somehow. Damn. He should just - "May I make it up to you by buying you that coffee?"


	2. Sherlock

"Damn."

"Welcome back, brother mine."

"Who was it this time?"

"If you are serious, perhaps next time you should lock your door."

"I want to go back -"

"Back?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "Doesn't matter, he won't -"

"Who won't?"

"Please, just go away, Myc."

He rolled over and feigned going back to sleep. Even though he knew his brother knew he was faking, he took the hint for once and silently slipped from the room. 

 

Sherlock Holmes, was, despite all of his arguments with the universe for the fact of his very existence, a pragmatic, logical man. He didn't trust anything he couldn't test with his senses, he had no time for faith, beliefs, or organised religion, which was why he found it more than a bit ironic that he was expected to 'share' with complete strangers in the basement of a church. It was his fourth? No - sixth go 'round. A month in rehab. Check. Back to daily or twice daily meetings, whenever the itch hit. Check. He knew most of those in the room. All regulars, except one. Blond, turning to ash, would probably be a nice shade of silver, sooner than later... whoa. stop. A slight limp as he walked over to the table to get his first cup of coffee of the day, probably the only reason he was here, he had spoken, but had said nothing. Nothing beyond what people expect of a former soldier - no. Not just a soldier. STOP. He had to know. 

 

"Sherlock." He knew better than to offer him his hand.

"John." Oh.

Say something. Don't, just don't - "I know. You're new." That's safe. Good.

"This is my fourth meeting in as many days." 

"Ah. You're one of those." Talk about what you know, good. Show him you know the ropes.

"One of... those?" Annoyed. I've annoyed him. But he's not too annoyed.

"You think if you show up here, and say something deep and meaningful..." Why? Why on earth -

"I didn't, though." No, you didn't. Don't drink that muck - too late.

"Yeah, it's pretty awful stuff." No, don't. Not yet, it's too - "Let me buy you some real coffee."

"Maybe another time? I have to - I have somewhere to be." He's lying. I think? Why can't I tell -

"No, you don't -"

 

He had been wrong. 

He watched John slowly make his way to the stairs, instead of take the rattling elevator that had been installed sometime in the 60's, even though it obviously still bothered him to climb the steps, he made pretty good work of it. He shrugged into his coat and scarf, even though it was the middle of July, he knew it would make him stand out, make tracking John harder, but he didn't care if he got caught out for once, and John didn't turn back to look at him. He moved as if he indeed had some place to be. 

It turned out to be a decent sized house in the midst of a slow, painful makeover. The small handpainted sign read simply:

Ella Thompson

Could be a lawyer, he supposed. He could have googled her quite easily, but he wanted to try and suss it out for himself. Probably a therapist of some sort. Something had made John need to speak to someone, or he had a regularly scheduled appointment that he was paying for, out of pocket, why out of - he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for just a moment, or what felt like a moment, when he heard John walk down the steps.

 

"That was rather rude, and you aren't normally a rude person."

"How do you know that?" John sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. Sherlock watched him consider walking away again, and he knew that Sherlock wouldn't have stopped him. He knew Sherlock would have let him go, and their paths would never cross again. They both knew that more than they knew anything. John met his gaze and Sherlock wasn't surprised to see dark indigo flash back at him in recognition. It was him. Had to be him. He nodded and shrugged, as if in resignation. "May I make it up to you by buying you that coffee?"


	3. John

"God. I don't know what's worse, that instant muck or this burnt overpriced mocha." John growled out, then placed Sherlock's black coffee in front of him, and eased himself down into the seat across from him.

"Why order it then?" Sherlock murmured, and John watched as he put packet after packet of sugar into his cup.

"Because I have a choice. Too many choices. I usually end up making the wrong one."

"Meaning..."

"Meaning nothing. Forget it." He shrugged and took another sip of the offending drink. Hell. "What are you here in the world?" Why, why did he ask it like -

"When I'm not being anonymous, you mean?" Sherlock asked quietly. He looked up and John blinked at him, it couldn't be, can't be. Him. But it - "I'm a detective."

"A detective?" John snorted, then stopped and looked at him seriously. "You mean like that Belgian bloke? I would've thought - I mean. Sorry."

"What did you think I'd be?" He was nervous, why nervous? It mattered to him what he thought. No one had ever cared about what he thought of them before. Be honest, then. He knew he needed to be honest or Sherlock would be gone.

"Musician." First thing that came to mind, and he could remember a fragment of music, just the tiniest -

"I was. I am. At times. When the tremors don't make it impossible." He laid trembling hands flat on the table and John wanted to reach out and - 

"Violin." John stated in a hush. Sherlock's hands disappeared under the table, for a moment, then he picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.

"Right. And you?"

"Nothing." The word leapt from him, and the easy acceptance of it surprised him. But Sherlock shook his head.

"No. You're not 'nothing.'"

"I was a doctor, then a soldier, I can be neither now. Even if -" John forgot and took another sip of the drink in front of him, then picked it up, pushed away from the table, limped over to the nearest trash receptacle and binned it. He sat back down and shrugged. "Even if I didn't - even if I weren't 'unemployable' because of my 'unfortunate habit,' no one would hire me." He laid his own hands on the table, and they both stared at his left hand, as it twitched, then went into spasm. Sherlock reached out cautiously and covered John's hand with his much larger one, and John took a breath. "Sherlock."

"John." They exhaled together as if they always had before.


	4. Sherlock

"John." 

Sherlock let his hand rest over John's for a moment, and waited for the spasm to pass before moving it away. "This may sound, I don't know, insane, may be the word I'm searching for, but, will you come back to my flat with me?" Too soon. Too much. He's going to walk away again -

John pushed away from the table once more, stood up slowly and reached for Sherlock's hand. 

 

Sherlock had never understood how one could walk while tethered to another human being until he walked out of the shop holding onto John's hand. Even with the height difference, and John's slight limp, they somehow managed to find a stride that worked for him, and he wished his flat wasn't just the next block over.

"There are stairs." He muttered apologetically.

"Aren't there always?" John smirked back at him, and Sherlock wanted to know what his smile looked like, a real one. One no one else got to see.

"Sherlock? Oh. Hello, dear." Why did he feel as if he was bringing home a date for his mother to approve? Mrs. Hudson was just his landlady. No. Wrong. She was -

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is our landlady." Damn. He turned and was about to apologise for misspeaking when John squeezed his fingers and he saw the smile flicker at him, for just a moment, then was gone.

"So, you've found someone for the other bedroom, oh, good! I know it's hot out, but, I can bring up some sandwiches and tea, just this once, I'm not your housekeeper, you know, dear."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and let go of John's hand, then flew up the stairs, and waited for him on the landing. He didn't want this to mean - he didn't want John to. God. What did he want? What was he doing? This was - he didn't do this. Then he met John's eyes as he let out an exhausted breath at the top of the stairs and knew. He wanted, god - did he want.

"How long have you been here?" John was asking as Sherlock opened the door; his words stopped as he peered into the flat.

"It's one of my brother's properties, he 'lets' me stay here, but I was allowed to decorate it the way I wanted to. A lot of this stuff was in the basement, other things I -" Sherlock turned and watched as John walked over to the faded, overstuffed chair and more or less collapsed into it. "I've been here since - since I was allowed to come home from -" John looked up at him and nodded, and Sherlock didn't need to explain any further. "Is it right? I wrote everything down, I usually remember everything about everything, but I wanted to make sure I got it right, just in case, if -" he found himself kneeling at John's feet, and John's fingers were in his curls. There was nothing cautious or questioning about John's movement forward, as he leaned down to kiss him.

"It's perfect."

Sherlock pulled away and laid a steady hand on John's face. "The only element I couldn't find was you."

"I'm here now."

"You aren't - I'm not -?"

John smiled that smile again and pulled him into another kiss that left both of them breathless.

"I'm quite real. You do know, chances are, we'll be -"

"A complete disaster."

"I'm willing to try if you are."


	5. John

"Yooo-hoooo, boys?" Mrs. Hudson was back, and they had left the door wide open. Sherlock had shot to his feet as soon as he heard her first footfall on the steps. He had moved away from John as if burned, and looked down at him uncertainly, then walked to the door to take the tea service from her and set it on the coffee table. John started to get to his feet, but she shook her head and he eased back into the chair.

"No, dear, don't get up. I know that chair isn't the easiest to get out of. Now, you take milk in your tea, yes?"

He decided to stop being surprised by anything that was happening to him today, and just nodded as she handed him a delicate cup and saucer. Her best if he wasn't mistaken. Looked much like his Nan's.

"Mrs. Hudson, your best?" Sherlock kissed her cheek and grabbed a sandwich from the plate. "Thank you, I'm starving."

She glanced up in surprise and her eyes darted over to John. "Well, this must be your doing, Dr. Watson -"

"Please, just call me John, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled at him and nodded. "John. Well, this young man has never thanked me for a solitary thing, and he's never 'starving.' Whatever you did, thank you."

John just grinned into his cup as she chattered on, then sighed as he sipped the best tea he'd ever had. "Mrs. Hudson, this is -" He smiled up at her and she walked over to him, kissed his cheek gently, then rubbed the offending lipstick smudge away with her apron. 

"Welcome home, John." She winked at him then strode over to Sherlock and scolded him, lightly. "Cut it out, you, now there are two for each of you, make sure he eats, looks like he needs a bit of feeding up himself. You take care of him, now, Sherlock. I'll let you get settled in, John. Don't let him -" She ran out of words, and quietly let herself out of the flat, closing the door behind her as she left.

 

John placed his cup and saucer on the table next to his chair and got to his feet, then walked over to where Sherlock stood, still in his coat and scarf, but he seemed to be shivering even on the hottest day of the summer. He placed a hand on Sherlock's back and felt him take a deep breath. "I don't know what I'm doing, John."

"It's okay."

"I always know what I'm doing. At all times. I'm always the one who -"

"I know."

Sherlock spun on him, the half sandwich still in his hand. "How can you -"

He took the sandwich from Sherlock's hand and placed it back on the plate. "I nearly didn't go to the meeting today. But I had nothing else to do, and I wanted coffee, or a coffee-like substance, maybe a biscuit or two. So, I went. I have spent my life trying to be in control of everything. In control of my life, in control of my feelings, until I lost it all. I lost every bit of control, everything was taken from me, and I didn't want to think about that, or feel what I thought about it. The only thing that kept me here, kept me going was the idea that one day, impossible as it sounds, one day, I would meet you."


	6. Sherlock

"...The only thing that kept me here, kept me going was the idea that one day, impossible as it sounds, one day, I would meet you."

He shivered again, then closed his eyes as John reached for his scarf, untangled it from him and let it fall from his fingers. "John." His coat, the only armour left to him was gently lifted away, then John was gone for the briefest of moments, and Sherlock felt unmoored, which was utterly ridiculous. "John?"

"Shhh. I just went to hang up your coat, and your scarf. I'm right here. Tell me, tell me what you want, Sherlock."

"I don't know, John."

"Have you -"

"I'm clean. John. It's been -"

"Shh. I know. I wasn't asking you that."

"You should, John. You should want to know - you know better than anyone."

"I know. I just wanted to know if you've ever been with anyone before."

He bit his lip, shook his head and began to turn away.

"No, wait. Stop. I didn't - I just wanted - damn. We don't have to -" John's next words were taken by Sherlock's kisses, awkward, unpracticed at first, then John caught up, and steadied them both, and his hands began to work on the tiny buttons of Sherlock's shirt, as Sherlock's fingers found their place in John's hair. "Damn, how many buttons does this shirt have?"

"Too many," Sherlock whimpered, then pulled the offending shirt over his head. "John."

"God. You're stunning." John kissed him once again and looked into his eyes.

"No. I'm not."

"Yes. You are. Absolutely beautiful." John drew back and lifted the t-shirt over his head, and tried not to look at Sherlock's face. "I'm sorry. I know its -"

He shook his head at him and asked him for permission without saying a word. John found himself nodding, then closed his eyes as Sherlock's long fingers traced the damage in his left shoulder. "Curious." John started. "No, I'm sorry - it's just I've never, uhm, seen someone with this kind of injury up close before, and have the subject - damn - be alive. Sorry. That was a bit not good." He dropped his hand and John picked it up, bringing it to his lips and kissed his knuckles until he could feel Sherlock stop moving, and the only sound to be heard in the room besides the midday traffic was of them breathing together.

"It's fine, Sherlock, it's all fine."


	7. John

"It's fine, Sherlock, it's all fine." 

He met Sherlock's eyes and smiled at him, then let go of his hand, and pulled him into a last kiss, trying to answer both of their doubts, squelch all the reasons they couldn't have this. Whatever this was. He had no idea, and he'd at least been in relationships before, not anything like this, but at least he had some clue what this would, could mean. "Bedroom?"

Sherlock took a breath and let it go slowly, then threaded their fingers together and walked towards the back of the flat, sighing as he pushed the bedroom door open. John was surprised at the order, then realized he shouldn't have been. When Sherlock slept, if he slept in bed, John imagined it would have to be pristine in order for him to clear his thoughts.

"We don't have to do anything. We could just rest."

"John. I tried to make sense of you for months. It sounds mad, but I spent hours trying to understand how something like that is possible - and then one morning I woke up and decided it didn't matter. It didn't matter what it was, what you were, what those thirty seconds meant, all I knew was that it was real, that you were real. And now, here you are. Standing in front of me. If I could, I would disappear into you - I know that - that sounds crazy, doesn't it?"

He shook his head. "No. If it's crazy, then I am too. I wanted to go back there, back to you, but I knew you had already left from wherever that was. I'd never felt as safe, as loved as I was when I was with you. There were nights when I'd go to sleep only because I thought I'd find a way -" Sherlock laid a hand over John's chest and John's breathing calmed. He covered Sherlock's hand with his own and whispered. "I want you. I do. You have no idea. I don't want to rush you into anything. I don't want you to wake up in a few hours and regret -" He stopped talking when he saw Sherlock's silver eyes go dark with the same want, and he walked forward until the back of Sherlock's legs rested against the edge of the mattress, then helped him to sit. He knelt carefully in front of him and gently eased down the zip of his wool trousers. "I don't know how you survive in this heat. Lift up." Sherlock lifted his hips just enough for John to remove the trousers, then closed his eyes and shuddered as he straightened up, and felt long, dextrous fingers work on the buttons of his jeans. "Damn."

"Is it too -?" Sherlock whispered in a voice that nearly took John to his knees again. 

"It's fine. It's just been a long time." He felt his jeans slide down his legs and he stepped out, then kicked them away from him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this way, at the moment he was quite certain he had never felt anything close to this, this absolute sense of someone else wanting him, as imperfect and broken as he was.

"Shh. John. You aren't, you aren't broken. You are perfect as you are."

"Sherlock -"

"You are perfect, John. As you are."


	8. Sherlock and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and now for a bit of explicitude...

"You are perfect, John. As you are." 

He wrapped his arms around John and maneuvered them both into bed, until they were on their sides, face to face, their noses nearly touching. He grinned, then brushed the tears away that were falling down John's cheeks. "Hasn't anyone ever told you how amazing you are?"

John shook his head.

"I'm so sorry, John." John leaned into Sherlock's chest and his arms automatically went around him and held him tightly. "I'm so sorry."

"No. I am. I don't want this to be -" 

"It's not." Sherlock whispered into John's hair, "I'm here because for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I am supposed to be, John. I want you to touch me, John. Please?"

John nodded and shifted back slightly so he could look finally get a good look at the man in front of him. He let his fingers connect the freckles that dusted over Sherlock's chest, as if he were creating constellations that only needed to be named. John moved closer and pressed a kiss over his heart and sighed as Sherlock's fingers held him him close, then relaxed. He moved lower simply taking in his scent, how it changed, as he neared his hip, then changed again as he moved further down. "God, Sherlock -"

"Touch me, John, please?" John looked up and nearly gasped at the look in Sherlock's eyes. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. "Please, John?"

John pressed a kiss to his hip then pulled down his silk briefs and chuckled as Sherlock growled as he pushed them off. He lightly ran his fingers down Sherlock's long length, and heard Sherlock whimper. "I'm here. Just tell me if -"

"John."

He buried his nose into the dark curls and breathed in the scent he remembered. The scent that meant he was home. "Sherlock." He sat up so he could take him in all in; his head was thrown back, his skin was already flushed from the stifling heat, and he was taut from expectation, from impatience, from months of not knowing, of waiting. John reached out and took his cock into his hand, and felt Sherlock jump when he began stroking him, gentle and firm at first, and then faster, until he knew Sherlock was close, then he bent down and took him into his mouth. 

"Joh -" Sherlock tensed and John felt strong fingers hold onto him as he came. "I'm sorry - I couldn't - it was just -"

"Just?" He whispered as he pulled back and wiped his mouth with his hand, then looked down at Sherlock's face. Somehow his silver eyes were open, and he knew how it was by the tears that were now streaming down the sharp cheekbones.

"Just perfect, John."


	9. John meets Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and they rest... for a while.

John went into the bathroom and found a flannel, ran it under warm water and wrung it out until just damp enough, then returned to the bedroom to find Sherlock already asleep. He cleaned him carefully, then binned the flannel in the hamper and crawled into bed. He couldn't help but smile as Sherlock wrapped around him, and for once, he didn't care about being too hot, as he snuggled into Sherlock's chest and fell asleep easily for the first time in months.

 

Hours later he sat up, the room was dark, and Sherlock was still lightly snoring next to him, but something had broken his rest. 

Tap tap tap. "Boys?"

"Damn." Clothes. He looked at the back of the bedroom door and saw one of Sherlock's robes hanging on the back of it, but shook his head. He sighed and pulled his jeans on, then remembered their shirts were in the front room. "Bloody hell." He leaned down over Sherlock and kissed his shoulder, then steeled himself for whatever he would have to face.

"Oh, John. Did I wake you? It's just, his brother is here."

"Brother." Right. Oh, hell.

"Here, dear, I believe this is yours?" She handed him his t-shirt and gave him a wink as she carried Sherlock's with her as she went out the door. "Mycroft, take it easy on them, dear."

"Mrs. Hudson."

Damn. Posh. He didn't know if he could -

"Dr. Watson."

"Mr. Holmes." John found himself standing at attention again, the first time since. Breathe, just breathe.

"At ease, soldier, or should I say, Captain?"

John felt the tension melt just a bit, but could hear the arrogance in his voice, and wondered how many people got within punching distance of Mycroft Holmes.

"Not too many, Dr. Watson. My brother remains the only person in my life to land a punch, and that was many years ago."

"What are you doing here?"

"Ah, Sherlock; so kind of you to join us."

"At least you didn't kidnap this one." John turned to see Sherlock wrapped in the sheet from the bed, and imagined he was wearing little else under it. "You didn't answer my question, Mycroft."

"Did you imagine the activities of today would go unnoticed, brother mine?"

"Which activities would those be?" Sherlock sneered darkly.

"The fact that you actually dressed and left the flat for the first time in a fortnight, and returned with -"

"With?" John repeated quietly.

"A fellow member of the recovery community?" Mycroft suggested.

John turned and met Sherlock's eyes and they both laughed. 

"Is that the best you can do, brother mine?" Sherlock managed when he was able to catch his breath. "I'm sure you have something better to do with your time than check up on me. You must realise by now that I removed the last camera this morning before I went walkabout, so sorry there is no evidence for you to - whatever it is you do with the recordings - must have been boring the last two weeks. Please offer my deepest, most heartfelt apologies to those people in your employ who must have been bored out of their collective minds. Shall I send a fruit basket?"

Mycroft smirked at his brother and raised an eyebrow, possibly at his choice of attire, but said nothing else before he turned on his heel and left the flat. Sherlock nearly tumbled to his knees, but John caught him in his arms. "I have you." He held him as he slowly eased them to the floor, he felt Sherlock shake in his arms and brushed the damp curls from his face, then kissed his forehead. "I know how hard that must have been."

"He has no right. No right to -" Sherlock whispered into John's chest.

They sat quietly for a few minutes; John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, while Sherlock's breaths gradually came easier and his heart rate settled once more to what was normal for him. "Hey there, are you hungry, is there something I can make you for supper?"

"Don't - I wouldn't go anywhere near that fridge. Not until I get a chance to -"

"How about Chinese take away?"

"Dumplings? It's been ages since I had dumplings." Sherlock slowly sat up and the sheet tumbled from his shoulder. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

John planted a kiss on his shoulder and shook his head. "Somehow I doubt that."

Sherlock shrugged, but a small smile made it to his eyes. "It's in the top five. Fine, top ten."

John laughed and kissed him soundly, then held him tightly again. "Dumplings it is."


	10. Sherlock

Food was ordered, delivered and dispatched with ease. His chopsticks froze in the air and he watched John casually flip through the channels on the telly. He told himself that if this was the only night that he had this, what was it, exactly? Peace? No - not peace. Contentment? Perhaps. One night would be enough, and then he shook his head and rummaged through the boxes in search of something. Liar. You are a liar. He wanted all of it, the take away, the crap telly and John, most of all, John for always and forever.

"We ate the last bit an hour ago." John yawned at him, and began to toss the empty boxes into the delivery bag, then stopped. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock."

"You won't. I mean, this wasn't. I've never done this, before. You do want to stay here, with me?"

"That was the plan. Unless?" John watched Sherlock's face carefully and waited.

"No. NO. I want you to stay. I just wondered, wanted to be sure."

John sat down next to him on the couch, and held his face in his hands. "There is no place I'd rather be, but by your side, Sherlock." He kissed him softly, carefully, tenderly, then kissed his forehead. "This isn't how something like this usually works, at least not in my limited experience, but know I am sure of you."

"How?" Sherlock searched John's face for any trace of doubt, but found none. "In my life I haven't found many things or people to believe in, but I am finding that I very much believe in you, John Watson."

John grinned at him and took the chopsticks from his hand, then threw them in the bag with the boxes. "Are you ready for bed?"

Sherlock nodded, pulled the sheet up around him and rolled his eyes as John laughed. "What?"

"Your wardrobe -"

"Yes?"

"It's quite eclectic, love."

Sherlock stopped his forward progress to the bedroom and looked at John. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'It's quite eclectic, love.' Oh. Is that too much?"

"No. I just wanted to hear you say it again."

"Arse."

He grinned at John and winked at him. "I'm going to brush my teeth. I'll be waiting for you."

"I do. Love you." John whispered across the room at him.

Sherlock nodded at him. "I can tell."

"How?"

"How you are looking at me right now. Don't forget to lock the door, just in case we want to have a lie-in tomorrow - or whatever. Don't be too long."

"I won't."

He turned away and headed into the bathroom. Damn. I should have said it back. It would have been so easy, just to say it back. But - it seemed too easy. He studied his face in the mirror and wondered if he seemed to be any different than he had this morning. No. Same pale face, sharp cheekbones, odd eyes, crazy hair - same as it always had been before.

"I know you love me too." John whispered at his ear. "You don't need to say it, for me to know it. I said it because I wanted to."

"John."

"Hmmm?"

"I'm so glad you are here."

"I am too, love. I am, too."


	11. Watson/Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a glimpse backwards...

For the first time in weeks, it was raining. 

He started as he opened his eyes and searched the room. It was the same room he fell asleep in, but yet, not. He took a deep breath and rolled over; Sherlock, but not Sherlock was there, next to him, dressed in woolen underclothes. His hair was shorter, but it was still him. He rubbed his own face and found that somehow he had grown a moustache overnight. Oh. He closed his eyes tightly, then pressed his nose into Sherlock's chest and sighed as gentle fingers trailed through his hair. They had -

"John?"

He pulled away slightly and looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock? Are you - I mean, it may sound like an odd query first thing in the morning. But are you, you? Do you -"

"We seem to, hmm..." He lifted a hand to John's face and played with the moustache. "How did you do that? It was - I mean, last night, yesterday? And what the hell am I wearing?"

"A bit more than you were yesterday," John chuckled. "Still adorable."

"Adorable?" Sherlock snorted, then ran his fingers through his hair. "What the -" He stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. "Listen, John."

"Hmmm?"

"What do you hear?"

John closed his eyes and searched for the sounds he expected to hear, it had been July, so the traffic should be loud, even at this time of the morning with tourists and Londoners going about their daily business. But all he heard were voices, selling their wares, and the sound of... horses? "Horses? Where are the cars? Sherlock?"

"John, if we use the evidence of our eyes and ears, what is the only possible, though highly improbable conclusion?"

"We're back. But - does that mean?"

Sherlock leaned over him and kissed him, as if he were testing a theory, then settled next to him, and ran his fingers down his chest and over his hip, until he felt John buck up into his hand. "No," he answered softly, with a smile in his voice. "You are most certainly, not dead, John."

"Then?"

"A dream, possibly? I am as at sea as you are, John. Perhaps if we go back to sleep, we'll wake up in the time we are supposed to be in?" John sighed impatiently, but Sherlock shushed him and rolled them so he was curled around the smaller man and his hand drifted from John's hip to his obvious arousal, even through his night clothes. 

"Sherlock. Please?" John whimpered.

"Yes, John." Sherlock traced his length with his long fingers, and noted John's reactions to his touch. "John."

"Sherlock."

 

"Yooooooo-hoooooooo! Boys!"

"Mrs. Hudson." John groaned, then flipped over and blinked at Sherlock, his curls had grown back, and his long fingers reached out to touch where John's moustache had been just a moment earlier. "Just a dream. But -"

"It was so real, John. Just as it was before, and we were there together."

"Come on, boys, time for elevenses -"

 

"Elevenses?" John whispered, then reached for his phone. "11:03."

"I haven't slept twelve hours since -"

"Rehab." John shook his head. "This is so much better than rehab, love." He reached up and pulled Sherlock closer, and searched his eyes before he kissed him in a way that sent a shiver through them both. "Let's get dressed and have our tea? And later -"

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow at him and smiled wickedly at him. "Later, we'll finish what we had just started? Hmmm?"

"Honestly," John groaned after Sherlock kissed him hard one last time before he stepped nimbly from the bed and strode across the room towards the bathroom. "You are stunning, love, in any age."

Sherlock turned and met John's eyes for a moment, then smiled gently at him. "I love you, too, John."


	12. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a new day...

He watched John sigh and push away from the table. "You're going to a meeting."

"Yeah. You're more than welcome to join me, but I get it if you'd rather not. I know what you said yesterday, that I wasn't broken, truth is - every day, every single day, I have to remind myself that I don't need it anymore. I think, no, I am certain that what I have, what we have, as early as it is, it's good. We are, this is a good thing - god, I'm just spewing words now. I just need to do this."

"I know. I'll walk you over? And then - Ella's?"

"I already told her about you, kind of. I knew when you approached me, who you were, before you even spoke, and I was afraid, that's why I bolted. But you knew that. You don't have to go -"

"No, I want to." John looked into Sherlock's eyes and smiled uncertainly at him, then kissed his forehead. "Maybe after Ella's we can stop by and see if Lestrade has any cold cases - probably thinks I've -" He pulled out his phone and looked at all the unanswered texts that were piling up in his inbox. He should do something about that. When did he start caring about - shoes. He needed to put on his shoes. He might even forego the coat, no. Maybe he'd just leave the scarf behind today. And in case they ran into Donovan - John's hand was suddenly just there on his shoulder, and Sherlock stopped thinking quite so hard. 

"Let me get your shoes, hmm?" How did he know him so well? Baby Steps. Sherlock snorted. A bit late in the day for that. Stop. Perhaps all that had happened over the twenty-four hours was simply to reboot their systems, so to speak. A bit fanciful, but just maybe they could try to start from where they should have from the beginning: together. He collected the dishes from the table and put them on the tray Mrs. Hudson would come up for later, when she knew the flat was empty, and she could do her bit of dusting. Flowers, maybe she'd like flowers? Where did that come from... maybe Lestrade knew a good place, he had noticed recently that Molly always seemed to have flowers on her desk - they would -

"Shoes?" John placed his shoes in front of him, and held out his coat when he was finished.

Right. Shoes, coat, no scarf today.

Baby steps.

John waited for him at the door, picked up his hand and brought it to his lips and kissed his knuckles lightly, then walked down the steps. He heard him speak to Mrs. Hudson, then pause, before he went out the door. John undertood him better than he did himself at this point. He was giving Sherlock the choice, how public their whatever they were becoming would be up to both of them. He knew that if once he had made his way down the stairs, greeted Mrs. Hudson, then walked out the door, he could take John's hand and it would be fine. He also knew that if he chose to keep his hands to himself for the time being, that would be fine too.

He walked out of the flat, closing the door behind him, took the steps even faster than he normally did, kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek and tried to calm down enough to face the bright July sun, and whatever else the day would bring. Sure enough, John was there waiting for him. Sherlock walked over to him, meeting the question in John's eyes, and offered him his hand. They both paused for a moment as John slipped his hand into Sherlock's, and squeezed his fingers gently, then they began walking, as easily as they had yesterday.

"Thank you," John said quietly as they crossed over to the church.

Sherlock didn't have to ask him what for, he simply nodded and tightened his grip on John's hand. "Thank you, John."


	13. John and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is at his meeting... could be triggering, he considers what has him sitting in a church basement with strangers, telling them his most personal demons; while Sherlock decides to visit the Yard, to see if Lestrade has any new work for him. There's a lot here, as they are both dealing with having the other in their lives.

"Meet me at Ella's in a couple of hours?" he asked. Sherlock nodded and gave his hand a squeeze, then took off in the opposite direction, possibly the park, or to see Lestrade, Sherlock hadn't decided. John took a deep breath and headed into the church. He gave a brief thought to what his mum would think. He shook his head. Why should she pop into his thoughts now? He had long ago let her go, long before he had left home for uni. He followed the others down to the stairwell, seeing a few faces he was becoming familiar with. There were ten today, five vets, including himself, a couple of older women, and the rest were college aged kids. Kids. He was once their age, he couldn't imagine being their age and reaching for drugs back then. Maybe, maybe if he hadn't spent his much of his twenties holed up in his tiny flat, just studying and working when he wasn't studying, if he had the money for a social life, or friends who tempted him to try something - yeah, then just maybe. He never thought he would have ever considered it, but in his pain and emptiness, he had reached for something to numb everything away.

John settled into his folding chair and listened to the leader speak his piece, then waited for someone to start.

 

Sherlock ended up at the Yard, knocking lightly on the door frame of Lestrade's office, his door was rarely closed unless someone was in serious trouble. He hadn't planned to visit the Yard without John, he had just started walking and it was where he stopped. He needed to apologise for his absence, and he wasn't quite sure he was ready to explain John's presence in his life yet.

"Hullo, stranger!" Lestrade waved him in and took a moment to look him over. "I was about to call your brother, just to see if you were still with us. Not like you to ignore my texts. You doin' okay? You look a bit different. Ah, the scarf - no scarf today, well it is only thirty degrees today. But - there's something else - I'm sure it'll come to me, sooner or later. Now, you are here to -"

"Apologise."

Lestrade snorted. "Apologise? To -"

"To you."

"What is this, Candid Camera, or somethin'? What have you done that requires an apology?"

"I had a bad couple of weeks and I just wasn't up to it. I should have let you know, and I'm sorry if you might have spent time worrying needlessly."

"Good enough."

"That's it?"

"Yup. I do have a couple of cases, nothing of international import or anything, but you can have a peek at the files. Don't worry, Donovan and Anderson are off on their 'Sensitivity Training,' they go through it every year, not sure what good it does, they don't seem to get it."

Sherlock chuckled to himself and Lestrade glanced over at him again as he handed the cases over. "Are you sure nothin' else - wait - you haven't insulted me once today. What's goin' on Sherlock, spill it."

"I met someone."

 

"I'm John, and I'm an addict."

"Hullo, John."

"I've been coming here for a few meetings now, and I have spoken each time, but I've only shared the easy stuff. You know, the recent stresses that might cause me to give up, and just take something? The stuff that people assume, with me being a vet, and everything that goes along with that." He saw a couple of the vets nod their heads in agreement. "I guess some of it started when I was a kid, and I always knew I was different, just felt it, and my da, he wasn't around much, even before he left, and my mum - my mum tried for a bit, but then it got too hard for her, and she realised I could do everything on my own well enough, including taking care of my sister, so she - I dunno. I haven't talked to her since I left home for uni. I don't see any point in trying to contact her now. Anyway - thanks, for listening."

"Thanks, John."

 

"You met someone? That's great!"

"Yeah." Sherlock couldn't help but grin just the tiniest bit, and press a slender finger to his lips.

"When am I gonna meet him?"

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and narrowed his eyes at him. "How do you know -"

Lestrade sighed. "I've always known, Sherlock. Ever since the first time we met, the first time I found you. You have to know it makes no difference to me. Don't you? I just hope the two of you will be happy. Happiness isn't easy to find these days, but you certainly deserve some, after everything, and as much as you've done to help us, it's about time. So tell me about him."

Sherlock sat up a bit taller and cleared his throat. "He served in Afghanistan and he was a surgeon, until he was invalided home. Actually, I think he'll be able to help with cases once I'm allowed back - he might even be able to help with these, though I don't think they'll be diffi- apologies."

"He's good for you, I can tell already. When did you meet?"

"Uhm - yesterday?" Sherlock actually felt himself blush as Lestrade snorted.

"Love at first sight. Why not? Why not indeed? Good for you, Sherlock. Those files are copies, you can do whatever you want with 'em, just see what you think and text me back when you aren't too busy."

"I - uhm - I have an hour and a half, and it's lunchtime, I can take a look and tell you what I see?"

"Yer gonna buy me lunch? Hell, I like these apologies of yours."

 

"So what do you want to talk about today?" Ella sat ready with her notebook and John considered for a moment, then nodded to himself.

"My mum."

"Your mum?"

"She always knew."

"Always knew what?"

"That I was gay."

"Is that the first time you've said that out loud?" Ella asked quietly and John blinked at her.

"I dunno. Yeah, probably. I've had no reason to tell anyone, to talk about it -"

"Until now?"

"Yeah."

"What's different now?"

"I'm in love now."

"Since when?" Ella smiled gently at him.

"Since yesterday, since forever, I'm not quite sure, to tell you the truth."

 

Sherlock flipped through the file while Lestrade ate his sandwich. "So, where'd you meet him?"

"Hmm?"

"Your fella?"

"At a meeting."

Lestrade nodded, and continued eating.

"No comment?"

"Why would I have any business commenting?" Lestrade took a sip of coffee and sat back in his chair. "None of my business."

"But you were curious."

"Course I am. From the little you've told me, he must be a smart guy to have gone to school long enough and train to be a surgeon, and yet he was selfless enough to give up his career to go to Afghanistan, not knowing if he'd be coming back in one piece. Not surprising he'd have a hard time when he had to come home. I've seen guys lose everything, but sounds like -"

"John."

"John, then, is trying to work things out, and he has you to help him. He's already made a difference for you, in you, if you don't mind me saying."

Sherlock blushed again, but didn't look away. "I don't mind. He's all the difference in the world, Greg. I just hope -"

"What?"

"I don't want to let him down."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. So, gimme what you got."

 

Sherlock was in the same place as a day earlier, when John left Ella's office. He searched his face, knowing John hadn't seen him yet, and wondered at the feeling he read in it. It wasn't something he could put into words, but he knew with everything that he had that he wanted to know, needed to know what it all meant.

"Sherlock." John smiled softly at him.

"I told you I'd be here."

"And here you are." John took his hand and pressed it to his lips. "Here you are."

"Home?"

"Home, please."


	14. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home

They walked back to the flat in silence, Sherlock had questions, but already could tell when John was all talked out. He simply held on to his hand, then wrapped his arm around John's shoulder as John began to lean against him, as if everything felt too heavy.

Mrs. Hudson had dusted and left a cold supper for them; Sherlock remembered it was her day to shop, then she would be playing poker with Mrs. Turner and her married ones until the wee hours of tomorrow, and was relieved they weren't going to be interrupted for the next few hours.

"Come sit." He maneuvered John to the couch, knelt in front of him, and began to take off his shoes for him.

"You don't have to -" John began quietly.

"I want to." Sherlock picked up John's shoes and placed them by the front door, then walked back to the couch and sat next to him.

John shook his head and curled up in Sherlock's lap.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me, anything. But you don't have to if you aren't ready." Sherlock held John lightly in his arms and waited.

"I'm just used to dealing with things on my own."

"You don't have to. I am a bit new to this relationship stuff, but one benefit of having a partner is that you aren't alone anymore."

"Partner," John whispered.

"I think boyfriend at our advanced ages is a bit sophomoric?" Sherlock smiled down at him and was relieved to see John's eyes twinkle back.

"Partner is perfect. Do you mind if we go to bed, just to rest for a bit? If you have things to do -"

"Nope, I had lunch with Lestrade and solved a couple cases for him while he ate, so I'm all yours."

"Did you tell him about us?"

Sherlock nodded. "He guessed something unusual had happened recently."

"How?"

"Well, seems I don't apologise very often. Apparently I'm a bit rude on my good days, so when I went to his office and started by apologising for not answering his recent texts, he knew something was up."

John laughed and reached up to brush a curl from Sherlock's eyes. 

"Let me just hang up my coat, and take my shoes off, and -"

"You can tell me about those cases you solved for him?" John sat up so Sherlock could get to his feet and walk to the door.

"Of course. They were rather mundane, but had a couple of features of interest you might find entertaining." He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, then bent down and untied his shoes and lined them up next to John's. He stopped and stared at the two pairs of shoes and his breath caught.

"Sherlock?"

"It's just - I've been on my own as long as I can remember, that is, when I wasn't in rehab, but even then, I think especially then, you can be alone in a room full of people, more alone sometimes than when you are actually on your own. You are the first person who hasn't made me feel alone, John." Sherlock got up again and walked over to John and offered him his hand. "Come on, time for bed."

 

"I brought up my mum at the meeting today." John said as Sherlock closed the blinds to block out the intense July light.

"You've never done that before."

"Not with anyone. Ever."

Sherlock undressed and climbed into bed next to John and curled around him. "Why do you think she came up today?"

"I think because if I called to tell her about you, about us, she would disapprove. But it doesn't matter. I haven't spoken to her since I left home. I wrote letters, but never sent them. She and my sister are my only family and they haven't been my family for over twenty years."

"I'll be your family, John," Sherlock murmured into his hair.

John turned in Sherlock's arms, and gazed into his bright eyes. "You already are. I think I realised that today, in little more than twenty-four hours I've found the only family I want, the only family I need."

They lay in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock cleared his throat. "So... the first case, it wasn't really a case at all..."


	15. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Molly

He propped himself up on his elbow and watched Sherlock sleep next to him. It was still insanely hot, even though it had rained while they slept, and Sherlock had kicked out of the sheet that had covered him, essentially laying bare the remnants of his twin addictions, the drugs and the work. As a doctor, he could see the toll that sleep deprivation and lack of real food had taken over the years. He didn't want to fix the man who lay in front of him, he just wanted to love him, take care of him, and yes, if it came to it, protect him. 

Ridiculous. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and yawned, then ran his hands through his hair and realized his things were still in his dismal tiny bedsit. He would have to do something about that, he didn't have much, but what he did have was all he had. He froze as he felt Sherlock's warm hand on his back, then relaxed into the touch, as he spoke softly.

"It rained."

"Yeah. It's just made everything more humid, still hot as hell. Not quite as hot as Afghanistan, but hot enough. I'll need to go back to my place and get my things."

"Let's get a shower, and we can go do that, I wanted to stop by Bart's and see if Molly had anything for me."

"Bart's?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's just I trained there, haven't been back in years."

"John."

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to push you into anything -"

"No." He turned and looked at Sherlock. He looked so young when he smiled, and it occurred to him that he knew he hadn't smiled often in his life. He was determined to change that. He crawled back onto the bed and kissed Sherlock soundly, eliciting a sound of contentment that he'd never heard, it sounded like a hum of bees, or a purr... he couldn't decide which it was, but he pulled back to look into his eyes to see if he could catch him smiling again. There, the twinkle in his eyes. God. So fast, he had fallen, he finally understood why it was said that people fall into love; it was like the one time, the only time he had parachuted out of a plane, a training exercise - it was a leap of faith that in the end the earth would take him back gently, now, he had to believe that the man who was cautiously smiling at him would catch him and not let him go.

"John. I know. I won't. I promise. I know you don't know me, yet, but -"

John kissed him once more, then helped him up from the bed and into the bathroom.

 

"Molly."

"Sherlock. And you, you must be John." She looked up from the corpse she was working on and offered him a sheepish grin. "I'd give you both a hug, but -" She held up her gloved hands and John smiled back at her. "Let me just finish up - wait. John. You're not John Watson, are you?"

He nodded as Sherlock looked him over as if he were suddenly a new specimen he hadn't examined closely enough.

"You're a legend around here."

"No -"

"Yes, you were top of your class perfect scores in everything. No one could touch you - had your pick of jobs after your residency, people in the know thought you'd be dean of the med school or Head of Surgery by now. But you chucked it all." She returned her focus to the autopsy, checking her work on the last sutures she had made, then yanked off her gloves, binned them and covered the body with the sheet. "Family is going to be in early tomorrow. Damn, sorry - I was running my mouth, it's just it's a complete honour to meet you, Dr. -"

"John. Just John."

"Then I'm just Molly." She laughed and went to wash her hands, then returned to glare at her friend. "Now, Sherlock. You've not been around in a couple of weeks so you've got your pick, I have a kidney - or a rather nice collection of eyes..."

"Really? Eyes?" John and Molly exchanged a look and they both let out a snort. "What? Eyes are fascinating... well they are." John kissed him lightly and Sherlock grinned at him. "They are."

"I know."

"You two are -"

"If you say adorable, Molly Hooper," Sherlock began.

"No, I was going to say perfectly sweet, but adorable works too." Molly stuck out her tongue at him, then wrapped her arms around him, and held him tightly for a moment, before letting him go. "I'm happy for you, now - do you want me to box those eyes up to go, or do you want to come by and work on them here tomorrow?" Sherlock looked over at John and sighed. 

"We have to go pick up John's things, I'll be in tomorrow, if that's okay?"

"I'll be here. Good to meet you, John." He braced for a hug, but she simply offered him her hand and he took it gratefully. 

"Good to meet you too, Molly."

 

An hour later John locked up his bedsit for the last time. Sherlock was holding one box of odds and ends that had just always traveled with him, while he had carried a large duffel and and his case for his laptop. He tried to wrap his brain around the idea that in nearly forty years of existence this was all he had to show for it.

"Let's drop your things off and get some dinner. It feels like it's been ages since we ate, and Angelo will get a bit miffed if he hears about you from someone else."

"Angelo?"

"He has an Italian place over on Northumberland, a few years ago, I saved him from a murder charge, three murder charges."

"How did you do that?"

"By proving to Lestrade and his underlings that he had an alibi - he was breaking into a safe across town at the time."

John couldn't help but laugh and as he slid the key under the manager's door, he realised his life wasn't what was in the box and bags they carried, but rather, his life was just about to finally begin.


	16. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo's...

"Sherlock! It's been too long, and who is this?" Angelo looked at Sherlock, then at John and back again, then wrapped his arms around Sherlock and nearly lifted him from the floor. "Ah! Billy! Candle! Wine - hmmm.." He searched John's face and shook his head. "No wine, just some of the nice sparking water. Follow me, you know your table is always available, Sherlock, and everything is on the house as always. For your date, too. Sit, boys, sit - I will bring you some garlic bread, you will like it -"

"John. I'm John Watson." 

"John. Good name. A good match for our Sherlock." Angelo nodded at them both and disappeared into the kitchen.

"You don't want to know how long he's been waiting to say that." he whispered. It took him by surprise how much it meant to him that Angelo saw what they had become. 

"How long has he known you?" John asked him as he took a sip of the water Billy had just poured out for them.

"Forever, it seems." Sherlock sipped at his own water then put it down, and thought about all the nights when it felt as if Angelo was his only friend in the world. "Ever since that case I told you about, if I needed something -"

"How old were you? God, I'm sorry - I'm just curious, you don't have to answer, I just want to know everything about you."

"No one's ever wanted to know me, before," Sherlock heard himself say quietly, then looked up gratefully to see Angelo with an enormous basket of bread. 

"Let's see, how old were you? Just nineteen, maybe twenty, I think, and then after I was released from prison a few months early, got off for good behaviour if you can believe it, there was the Headless Nun case."

"The Headless Nun? You know you're going to have to tell me about that one -" John grinned at him and picked up a piece of garlic bread, breathed in its scent, and sighed before taking a bite. "Brilliant. You can tell me after we eat."

"Smart man, this one. When did you meet?"

Sherlock glanced over at John, then shrugged. "Not so long ago."

"Ah, love at first sight, then. Ah, Sherlock, I knew. You never believed there was someone for you, but I always believed. Someone as good as you, as generous, would have someone out there. Hmm, now for tonight? The ziti? Yes, the ziti... eat up, John, you two have work to do, You both need feeding up, too thin. Eat!"

John held a piece of bread to Sherlock's lips, and smiled gently at him. "You heard the man, love, I need to feed you up." 

Sherlock laughed and took a bite, and chewed happily. Even food that he had eaten for most of his adult life tasted better with John by his side. "Utterly preposterous," he muttered under his breath, but as he watched John's eyes glitter at him in the candlelight, he realised that he understood how far one could go to protect someone they loved. He hadn't truly understood before.

"Hey. Where'd you go?" John asked him quietly.

"It's nothing. Just need the gents." He placed his napkin on the table and leaned over to kiss John. "Hmmm... we're going to taste like garlic for days."

"I don't mind if you don't." John winked at him and Sherlock just wanted to be home. No. He needed John to see the bits and pieces of his life; first, the people who actually tolerated him, then he could deal with anyone and anything else, as long as John was with him. "Be right back."

"Double serving of Ziti -" Angelo began not two minutes later. "He rarely eats anything more than garlic bread, but maybe, he'll eat with you, hmm. You understand, you see a full grown man - yes?"

John nodded, and gave Angelo his full attention.

"To me, he is still the kid who saved me. He fought for me, like no one ever had before, or since. So he is like the son I never had, do you know what I mean? I can tell, you are a good man, John Watson."

"How do you know?" John asked him, curious to know the answer.

"I know, because he chose you, you chose him. And that is enough, that is all I need to know. Just know he is loved, even though he doesn't always know it. Hmm? Now, give the ziti a try and tell me what you think."

 

"I can barely walk," John groaned as he walked up the steps to the flat, carrying an order of tiramisu and the leftovers from dinner. 

"Just doing my best to feed you up," Sherlock laughed as he draped his arm around John's waist. "He said something to you when I left the table, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Well?" Sherlock stopped and looked at him.

"He wanted me to be aware that I am not to lose you."

"That's not what he said," Sherlock snorted.

"No, but he understands."

"Understands?"

"That we chose each other. And I think that's the best explanation for what we are, for what we have and I have no intention of letting anyone hurt you or take me away from you. I know some people may find us a bit odd, but I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks about you, about us. If all I ever do for the rest of my life is love you, that's enough for me."

Sherlock pushed him against the wall and breathed in the clean scent of John's soap, the garlic and marinara from Angelo's, and the remnants of London that clung to him for a moment before kissing him in a way that told John everything he ever needed to know about the man he loved. "Upstairs. Now."


	17. John

"I'm here. It's okay. You're safe. John. Can you hear me?"

Sherlock. Sherlock's voice. He moved his hand and he felt Sherlock's heart race under his fingertips.

Damn.

"Sorry." Please tell me I didn't hurt you.

"You didn't hurt me."

"I'll just -" 

"Stop." Sherlock pulled him even closer into his chest, and held on. "Just breathe for a moment, with me."

"Sher-"

"Breathe." John ran his fingers over Sherlock's shoulder and down his arm, feeling the ancient scars, and the most recent marks, then traveled on until he felt Sherlock's pulse and stopped, then forced himself to take a breath. Then another, and another until they were breathing together, and he felt Sherlock's lips at his temple, his arms and legs secure around him holding him to the moment they were in. He counted their breaths silently to himself until he eventually fell asleep once more.

 

He reached his hand out to find an empty space, except for a single piece of paper.

 

Went to see Molly. Back soon. Love S.

 

"Damn." He rubbed his eyes and scowled at the sunlight. At least when he used to drink he deserved the hangover the next day, now, it was just from existing. Shower. He sat up and reached for his phone. Still time to catch the end of the meeting, if you skip everything but getting dressed. He dug through the duffel bag and sniffed at his the clothes he had pulled out. At least they're clean. He dressed, then managed to leave the building without getting tackled by Mrs. Hudson. She'd have questions he had no answers for, not enough time to walk, so he grabbed a cab, and walked into the basement, just as Sherlock stood up to talk. He wasn't wearing his coat, or his scarf, just the purple shirt he had worn two days ago, with grey trousers. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and John wanted to move, to go back up the stairs, or sit, something, but he found he was frozen to the spot.

"I'm Sherlock, and I'm an addict."

"Hullo, Sherlock."

"I've been here a few times, haven't ever said anything, because I'm not good at this stuff. I know what people expect me to say, something about my past, what made me the way I am, why I want to use now, what stops me. Every time I've gone through rehab or some group therapy thing, I've learned the phrases, the words that make people think that you are getting better, or you're cured. It's never a question of being cured though, is it?

It's a constant, every day thing, like waking up in the morning, going to the loo, switching on the kettle, not using drugs, making the tea, drinking the tea, don't think about your dealer just down the next street, getting dressed - that's what my life has been like in those times when I've been clean before, those times are rare. I've spent more time in rehab than doing anything else in my adult life, save for my time at uni.

I had spent the last couple of weeks in my flat afraid to move, so I barely got out of bed, that way I couldn't mess it up this time, so I thought. But, a couple of days ago, I made myself do it, I still don't know why, but I got out of bed, showered, shaved, dressed and came here, not to talk, just to listen, to make the attempt, I don't know, really, but I showed up and I met someone. And I honestly believe coming here that day saved my life, because I have a reason, a better reason to stay clean, not just for myself, but for him, so I can be here for him. I didn't know what it meant to be needed before. Honestly needed in a way that was good for me. Needed not because he expects more than what I can offer him, but because he loves me, and he knows I love him. And I know how weird, how absolutely irrational that sounds, I am, at heart a rational person, logically it doesn't make sense, but -"

John took a breath as Sherlock turned around and saw him, then turned back. "- sometimes, logic takes a back seat to what your heart knows. I told you I'm no good at talking about this stuff." He shrugged and sat back down.

 

"Thank you, Sherlock. If there's no one else, please help yourself to coffee and biscuits."

 

Sherlock got up slowly from his seat and walked over to John, stopping in front of him. "I intended to go see Molly. I did. But as I started to reach for my coat, I realised I didn't need it this morning, and to be honest, it scared me a bit. I've always tried to hide behind things, or words, or my big brother, or drugs, and for the first time, I didn't want to hide, or be bundled up, tucked away somewhere safe. When you had your nightmare this morning, I was afraid at first that I wouldn't be able to help you, I was afraid I wouldn't be enough. But, I was, John. I have been constantly reminded that I'm not enough, my whole life, but there is something in me that is enough for you. So I watched you fall asleep, and held you for hours, and then I needed to be on my own."

"Why?"

"I thought what if one day I wasn't enough, I relapse, or can't help you, or I make a bad decision on a case, or I get hit by a bus? I was taught from an early age that caring for other people, letting other people care about me, only led to getting hurt, emotions just got in the way of logic, of the work."

"The world isn't logical, people aren't usually rational, you know that better than anyone, because of the work you do. If you stop feeling anything, yes, you don't feel pain, but you also stop feeling joy, or love. In the short time I have known you, I know you can feel joy and love, and if we are together long enough there will be pain, one way or another, but when it comes you won't face it alone. I promise I'll do my very best to be there with you..."

"John -"

"It's the best I can offer you. I know it isn't all that much, but..."

Sherlock finished his next thought with a kiss then laid a long finger on John's lips."I love you. I want to spend my life listening to you chatter away, but I'm starving, and then I want to go to the lab and look at eyeballs for the next few hours, if that's okay with you."

John nodded and whispered into Sherlock's chest, "As long as you are there, I don't care what we do."

"Dim Sum?"

"Perfect."


End file.
